I'll send the wolves that hunt at night, charging through the shadows with a thunderous whisper, tickling the air with fetid breath that smells of death. Teeth glint like steel in the moonlight, howls calling for blood. They hunt within the dark, blackish coats reflecting hell fire. One bite and you're forever theirs, forever mine. Don't fight the wolves, give in to the sinful desire. I am the wolf. I am Christian Jensen.
Lela Gwen has sullied her reputation by speaking with me over the past few weeks. I found her posting horrible things on twitter, and then was assaulted by her protective nature while chatting with a cute little friend of hers. Apparently the LIONESS doesn’t like wolves circling her friends. I learned my lesson and started chatting with this tattooed hard ass, finding her wit and intelligence to be an interesting challenge.
Then I discovered her writing on her blog, and sending a request to have her post a guest spot was an obvious choice. She delivered a fantastic little romp. Something I know you will enjoy.
By: LELA GWENN
She is a lioness.
Prowling the dark club she scans the room, looking for her prey. With a deliberate hand she tugs on the hem of her suggestion of a skirt. The soft waistband follows her tug, exposing the small tattoo that marks the soft flesh below her belly button. She catches the eye of one poor fool staring, trying to decipher the words. She presses a long fingered hand over the inscription and mouths the words, "Not for you." He is too eager. He is no challenge.
Her prey is in the darkest corner of the club, surrounded by girls with larger tits and longer hair. They laugh too loudly at his jokes. They find reasons to touch their hair, their face, and their breasts. They do everything but scream. "FUCK ME!"
Not with the lioness in the room.
She sits and waits.
Not long. His eyes meet hers and linger. The lioness holds his gaze to the point where the gazelles to his left and right would look away, eyelashes batting. She holds him just to the point of discomfort. To the "we're playing chicken, you turn first" point. One side of her mouth turns up in a smile that promises trouble. This is a man drawn to trouble.
She shifts her eyes to the back door and nods to him. Before he can acknowledge her gesture she slams back her drink and strides across the room and out the back door.
A quick hand snakes out, unconsciously checking that all her weapons are in place. A few steps out into the well lit and oh-so-safe parking lot and the door behind her opens. The lioness doesn't turn.
Seconds after the door closes he is upon her; his body pressed against her back, his breath hot on her neck.
"I've been waiting for a girl like you."
The lioness pirouettes in his grasp and presses her open, wet lips against the scruff of his cheek. "You've never even heard about a girl like me."
It was important not to leave his car behind. Cars left in parking lots prompted missing person's reports. His car, her place. This is her sanctuary. This is not a place to eat, watch T.V. This is where she fucks and kills.
Like a king he strides into her lair, turning to look at her like she's been caught being naughty. Fingering a restraint, he leans back against the metal frame that houses it. There is no time for games. Rushing him, she wraps her arms around her victim's neck and pulls him in with her long leg.
She kisses him deeply, running her hands roughly through his hair. Before he is aware of what she is up to, she has one of his hands cuffed. "Naughty, naughty." He grabs her shirt and pulls. Buttons pop off, leaving a less than decorative bra exposed.
"Uh, uh, uh ...no. This is my playground," she purrs.
It is his turn to lose buttons, the lioness slowly popping each one all the while staring into his dark eyes. She attacks him with fury. Biting, licking sucking. His body responds, his cock tenting the front of his linen pants. Eyes shut, he doesn't notice the small curved blade that she pulls out of her ugly bra. She falls to her knees. A quick nick and his pants are torn off.
He notices the knife. His eyes light up with a curiosity she gives him no space to express.
She attacks again, her full lips pressed tight together, barely allowing his cock entrance to her mouth. And then opening, giving him unfettered access to the wet depths of her throat. With her tongue she traces the path of his throbbing vein all the way back to its source, then abandons it to follow the delicate seam of his balls.
She reaches up with her empty hand, seeking stability as he rocks in pleasure. The cold metal of the restraint on her wrist is a shock. She feels his dick surge, getting harder in her hand.
His hand twists into her hair, dragging her up to her feet. Their kiss is crushing, violent, desperate.
She has never, ever, been afraid.
This man scares her.
Her cunt drips.
"Why am I here?" He shakes both the restraint and her as he asks the question.
"I brought you here to kill you."
Their voices are a perfect mirror. The high and the low. The deep and the lilting.
Her skirt rolls up to her hips. She turns and bends, offering herself to him, an unheard of submission. As he drives his cock into her, she fantasizes about the hunts they will have.
She is a lioness.
He holds himself away from her, enjoying the porn star view of his cock sliding into her wet depths. He is amply hung, but so involved in watching himself fuck that he only uses the first third. Their only connection is this bit of cock he is lending her and the hand that keeps the pace slow and shallow.
Her mind wanders to the nature programs she would watch as a kid. Lionesses were choosy about who they fucked. Lions had to fight to get a mate and when they did-- it was a brutal affair. Close. Angry.
She is a lioness. She yearns for teeth on her skin. For hands that grab and hold and own. An unused hand slides her other knife out of the sheath in her bra. She reaches back, sure that he will see. He only has eyes for himself. The hooked blade catches on some bit of flesh behind his swinging balls. She pulls and the delicate seam rips open wide. The wet gush splashes on her legs and ass. She cannot help but nudge her clit with a gore-soaked hand as she pulls her arm back through.
He grabs her and begins to pummel, but it is no use. The blows land weak and weaker as the blood floods the floor below.
"Oh, kitten. If you'd only been a little feistier a little sooner." She watches as he sinks to the ground, his life flowing down the French drain at his feet. "You might be a killer, but you are no lion."
She kisses him as the light in his eyes goes dim. Blood slicked hands slide down her belly, coloring her simple script tattoo. The quickly thickening juices of her latest conquest mix with heated honey all her own. Her searching hands find their own pleasure, bringing her to climax again and again to the sweet dream of finding her Lion.
Bio: Lela Gwenn writes things that make people uncomfortable. One day, she hopes to make lots of people feel very, very weird.